


Symbiotic

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood, Fight Sex, M/M, Rough Sex, S&M, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires, Werewolf John, Werewolves, blood letting, not an abusive relationship!, sort of S&M, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock find a mutually beneficial agreement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symbiotic

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Symbiotic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058259) by [ogawaryoko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ogawaryoko/pseuds/ogawaryoko)



> Jeez, I haven't posted anything in so long... I blame my new job. I actually have a few fics I've been working on, but I got this idea when I got home from work and finished it tonight. I have another idea for a vampire/werewolf fic, but this seemed to work for now.
> 
>  **PLEASE NOTE** : this is NOT me glorifying abusive relationships. This is very explicitly NOT an abusive relationship. That is obvious in the fic, but I want to make sure people know that right off the bat. If anyone feels I should use any of the Archive Warnings, please include that in your comment with your reasons and we can discuss it. I'm really thinking about using "graphic depictions of violence" (even though there are none) and "rape/noncon" (even though there is none). However, someone's standards of what counts as "graphic" might be different than mine. This is on the tipping point for me. This fic is a little different for me and I would love feedback on what else I should include in tags, or warnings, or whatever else.
> 
> Like I said, I've wanted to do a vampire/werewolf AU for a while but I'm a sucker for world building, so I've had a bit of a stumble. I tried to have as little "over explain" here as possible, while still creating a world people could understand with minimal cues. Feedback on that would also be appreciated.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked. Finished literally five minutes ago. If you find a typo, include it in your comment and it will be caught and shot. And if you made it through this giant wall of author notes, I commend you. :)

It had been… difficult. Yes. Difficult was by far the kindest word. Ever since his _injury_ , John’s life hadn’t just been turned upside down, but the lives of anyone else who wanted to be near him. At least, for the week surrounding the full moon.

A one in a million chance, the doctors had told him. Well, looking at the numbers when it came to different werewolf breeds and population density, more like one in fifty-five thousand. Still, he understood their point: he’d won the lottery of Lycanthropy. Rather, the anti-lottery.

But the lottery wasn’t always a good thing, and this certainly wasn’t good for John.

“Can’t they have a better name for it?” he snarled a few days before his seventh full moon and his seventh change. He could already feel it. Scratching under his skin like a parasite ready to rip out of his chest Alien style. Something that was not him, in any way, shape, or form. Except… it was. “Killer Lycan makes it sound—”

“You know that’s not it,” Mike sighed. He’d just chanced by John in the park and they’d got around to talking about Afghanistan. Everyone knew there was something worse that getting shot in the war, and now Mike knew it had happened to his old friend. “There are so many variations, you know they need to make the classifications as simple and direct as possible. So you’re a little bigger in wolf form, a little more violent before the moon. Only one night of actually change. Some poor bastards have to deal with the full three days.”

There was that. At most, he was a wolf for twelve hours. As soon as the sun came up, poof, he was John Watson again (if a bit more sore than he started out). There were some unfortunate breeds that changed through the full three days and nights—the nights before and after the full moon, and the night itself. Though in retrospect, that was probably the reason John’s violent wolf tendencies started to manifest a week before when he was still in his human form. Not enough time to run their course through the moon cycle.

In his first non-field hospital after the _injury_ , John had met one bloke who had a more “mild” version. Whilst covered in fur, he tore around the pen the same as the rest of them, more so, as he had three nights of it. But come the morning, he was as calm as a lamb. And he never experienced the mood swings during the rest of the month. Getting it all out of one’s system was clearly the way to go.

But not for John. John got bit by the biggest, baddest breed out there and managed to survive. The doctors said he was lucky to be alive; half of those bitten by the Killer Lycan died in the next five minutes. But John Watson was a fighter, and now, he was a hairy fighter.

Gripping the handle of his cane (third one since his discharge; they snapped too easily under his new strength) he let out a breath. Breathing exercises were the best “answer” to dealing with his new disposition. One couldn’t be surprised why John had lost faith in the mental health profession. Admittedly, he’d never had much to begin with.

“It’s made it even more difficult to find a flatshare. Who would want a monster for a flat mate?”

Mike had always had this odd little giggle. To hear it now was more perplexing than usual. “Something funny?” John asked.

“Nothing. It’s just, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

~

Sherlock Holmes: Vampire Detective. It sounded like something out of a bad film, but there he was, as John lived and breathed. And as Sherlock did _not_.

“The _Killer_ Lycan,” Sherlock smirked. John’s hand tightened on his cane. “Aptly named, as their bites have the highest mortality rate.”

“Not as high as yours.” John barely stopped himself from snarling the words.

Sherlock’s smile did not fade. He’d already read John’s life as if it were printed in words in front of him, and yet he was still here. Few people were brave enough to share space with _killers_ so close to the moon.

“I have my eye on a flat in Central London. Together we should be able to afford the rent. The land lady—Mrs. Hudson—owes me a favour.”

“What?” John must have missed something. The twinkle in Sherlock’s eye told him: yes, he really, really had. And just like that, less than two days later, he was living with a vampire.

Just in time for the full moon.

~

In retrospect, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. And every time John wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s hips and squeezed hard enough to shatter a mortal pelvis, it felt even better, more than just the “mutually beneficial agreement” Sherlock had proposed months ago.

“Harder!” Sherlock growled between sharp teeth. And John assented.

Bruises blossomed under his fingers only to have the capillaries instantly heal, leaving behind nothing but colours spotting Sherlock’s skin. Sometimes, when John was too rough—which really took some doing—Sherlock would need a feed right after. Too much blood sloshing around beneath his skin.

Pulling one hand off Sherlock’s hips, John let it fall on a perfect buttock. The resulting smack echoed around the room, and Sherlock’s upturned rump started turning a lovely purple-red.

“Yes…” a long, drawn out hiss slid between Sherlock’s fangs.

He would never tell John, but all the change-heated blood pumping through him made his cock just a bit larger right before the moon. Sherlock loved the feel of it: the hot, hard, glorious flesh pulverizing him from the inside out. It fed his blood lust in a way merely drinking could never do. The fight was part of their nature. Vampires and werewolves weren’t the most natural of bed-fellows (in their case, a literal bed) but they made it work. In the way Sherlock and John were always contrary to nature, it worked.

Suddenly, John pulled out and shoved. Sherlock toppled off the end of the bed and landed on the floor. Before he could move, John was right there plunging his cock back inside him, one hand wrapped around Sherlock’s neck. Fingers twitched and started to squeeze.

John wasn’t sure if Sherlock was acting (probably) or if it was some latent human reflex, but Sherlock started to gasp. Throat working under his hand, Sherlock desperately tried to breathe around the constriction. He didn’t need to, they both knew that. Watching Sherlock struggled and claw at him still turned John on like you wouldn’t believe. The angry Lycan presence lurking in the back of his mind let out a contented rumble.

Feed the beasts—both of them. That had been Sherlock’s idea, and so far, it was working. Instead of holding back to the point of bottling it up until he snapped, John took out his anger on Sherlock. Immortal vampire bodies were built to last, and they could take a pounding. Whether John was in the mood for a fist fight, or a knock-down, drag-out fuck on the floor boards, Sherlock could handle it. Even gave back some of his own—which enhanced everything on John’s end.

Feeling the need to change their position again, Sherlock tore John’s hand away from his throat and rolled them over. On top now, he backhanded John hard enough to split his lip. The Beast reared up and howled as John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and bent it back. A human would have a snapped radius. Sherlock now had a slight sprain that would heal before they were even done fucking.

Hearing a satisfying pop, John grabbed at Sherlock’s other arm. Pinning both wrists in front of Sherlock’s chest, John grabbed his hip with the other hand and continued pounding him. Hips snapped up, raising them both off the floor before they smacked back down.

The room around them echoed with snarls, shouts, and growls. It was their version of dirty talk, and neither would change it for the world.

After what seemed like a life time of glorious fighting-slash-sex, John let go of Sherlock’s wrists and latched both hands on his hips. One last growl and he came, pumping long and hard inside the cool body above him. Wrists completely healed, Sherlock took himself in hand and joined John.

The second he was done coming, John snapped back to himself. “Alright?” he asked after Sherlock’s shouts had died down.

“Mmm, perfect.” Sherlock moaned, his voice a low rumble.

John wasn’t so convinced, but nodded all the same. “Up onto the bed, then.”

A few moments of wiping up and checking for injuries (there never were any, well, any that would last) they collapsed into the bed, John’s arms protectively around Sherlock. It was something that never failed to confound John, that his animal brain—a bit more animal now-a-days—could urge him to protect and defend the very body he’d just been abusing. He supposed that was a bit more of him than the wolf, and John rather liked to think he was still human when it came to the person he cared for.

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock rumbled.

Nodding against his back, John echoed “Tomorrow.”

Moonrise was at six fifty three, but John would feel the change anywhere to an hour before that. They would probably fuck again in the morning and spend the day preparing to go out. Regent’s Park was one of London’s designated “Lycan Change Zones” and Sherlock would always accompany him on the night. Most of the others didn’t like the presence of a vampire, but Sherlock would be damned if he left John’s side.

Pressing one last kiss to Sherlock’s neck, they both drifted off to sleep. Even by vampire standards, Sherlock kept strange hours, and in the nights surrounding the moon, he would always sleep when John slept. John rather liked that.

~

The morning after the moon, John always had to be carried from the park. Mostly, that was why Sherlock refused to leave him alone. John was more than capable of handling the other wolves—to start, he was the biggest of the pack that showed every month—but Sherlock wanted them to be very, very well informed on who exactly John belonged to. And Sherlock belonged equally to John. It was a mutually beneficial agreement.

Sure, the rising sun made things a little tight, but Sherlock always managed to get the two hundred and fifty pound wolf home in time to watch him change back into small, unassuming John. Then it was back to their bed for fluids and the ever-present blood transfusion.

It was understandable—in order to shift into a wolf twice his original size, certain things needed to change in John’s body, most of them very rapidly. For some reason medical science was still debating, all the extra blood that flooded the body during the change did not disappear when the human form returned. Right after sunrise, a werewolf of John’s size would probably be carrying three extra pints of blood in his veins.

Normally, this would be dealt with by a trip to the doctor to have the excess blood transfused out. Unless one had a vampire at home to take care of that.

IV sticking out of his arm, John slept soundly with Sherlock curled beside him. Sometimes, when John wasn’t so exhausted by the previous night, Sherlock would take directly from his throat. But that led to dressings, keeping wounds clean, and _looks_ from Mrs. Hudson and the Yard. And this way, Sherlock could bag the blood to use as needed.

Tired eyes fluttered open to look at Sherlock, a soft smile crinkling the corners. “Good morning.” he murmured.

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock corrected, and then leaned in for a kiss. “You got in a fight with Thompson last night. And you won.”

John smirked and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Good. Bastard’s had it coming for months.” Thompson was the only other _Killer_ in the Regent’s Park group. He was still two hands smaller than John, and loved to pick fights to try to prove his dominance. “He needs to realize that my most frequent sparring partner is someone more unbreakable than me. It won’t bother me to keep hitting with a broken paw.”

That had happened once and Sherlock was still ashamed of it. The hand healed two nights later after the shift from human, to wolf, then back to human. Still. He needed to control himself in his play fights with John. Just because he was less breakable than other people didn’t mean John wasn’t fragile. At least, he was by vampire standards.

“Lestrade has seen the fresh IV marks on your arms,” Sherlock said in his own version of _conversationally_. “He understands now why everyone calls me leech when I’m with you, but he won’t say anything about it to me. He’s going to approach you soon to ask about our ‘unhealthy’ relationship.”

“Great,” John rolled his eyes. “I need more sleep before I even try to tackle that one.”

John’s eyes fell closed and he went silent. Sherlock lay beside him, unmoving in the way only a creature with no breath could be. He let his eyes trace the IV from John’s arm down to the bag slowly filling with his blood. Sherlock’s stomach and heart both lurched for very different reasons.

“John?” he whispered. He knew John wasn’t asleep by his breathing. He really ought to rest for a few more hours, but this brief interruption wouldn’t cause any harm.

“Mmm?” John mumbled, eyes still closed.

“Our relationship isn’t unhealthy?” It was endearing to the point of adorable: most of the time, when Sherlock should be asking a question, he made statements. When he should be making statements, he asked questions.

Shifting his IV-free arm over to rest on Sherlock’s thigh, John gave him a soft squeeze. “Before the moon, I get into fist fights with you. After the moon, you drain my blood. If either of us ever said ‘no,’ yeah, it would be an unhealthy relationship. The way it stands, we both get what we need,” John leaned forward to nuzzle his nose in Sherlock’s cheek “and we both get what we want. It’s… symbiotic. So how is that harmful to either of us?”

A small smile bloomed across Sherlock’s pale lips. “Thank you, John.” he whispered.

“You’re welcome.” He smiled back. “Now let me sleep.”

His eyes dropped closed again. Soon, a soft snore rose from his chest. Sherlock stayed there and kept his vigil; replaced the IV bags once they’d filled. Once he’d drained John’s excess blood and stood in front of the fridge looking at two shelves of beautiful red packets, he smiled to himself.

Was it normal? No.

Did that matter? Most definitely not.

The End.


End file.
